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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154603">What remains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha'>Saetha</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Child Death, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Dysphoria, FebuWhump2021, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Second Trials, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Trials, graphic descriptions of od body changes, no beta we die like boys during the Trials</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:46:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,244</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154603</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Geralt.” Eskel stops closely before the bed, heart clenching painfully in his chest. His friend’s eyes are bound and his ears stoppered, but Eskel remembers just how painful every sound, every sight must still feel. That isn’t what takes his breath away, however, nor is it the sight of his bones looking wrong, of the angry burns on his skin that shift in time with the flecks of colour as the mutagens ravage through his body. No, it’s his hair – bone-white and brittle instead of the auburn waves that Eskel so adores. Gone are Geralt’s freckles, too, his skin so pale that he looks more like a wraith than a person. </i>
</p><p><i>He wants to scream and shout, wants to tear this room apart, wants to stick the pair of scissors on Geralt’s nightstand into the mage assistant’s heart. Instead, he just steps closer. </i><br/>*</p><p>Eskel cares for Geralt after the second set of Trials.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>febuwhump 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>What remains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The first of more than a dozen Witcher fics for Febuwhump, whoop whoop! Starting off with my beloved wolves, ofc. The prompt for today was "I can't take this anymore."</p><p>We have such vague information about the Trials in the books, but I headcanon that the Trial of the Grasses is in early teenage years, around 11-12 or so (I think it's 8-10 in the game in that unmarked sidequest you can do), and then they train a bit more to get used to their new bodies and undergo the Changes (and finish growing etc), being sent out as fully fletched Witchers in their early 20s. In my head, Geralt and his unfortunate companions were dragged off for the second set of Trials around 19 or so.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When they bring Geralt back, Eskel doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry. He hasn’t slept in days, not since they had dragged him and four others off for additional Trials. They cannot <em>hear </em>the screams from the chambers in the keep, but if Eskel closes his eyes he can feel them reverberating throughout his mind nonetheless. He cannot concentrate on sword drills, or any of his other lessons, each and every moment constantly overshadowed by the thought that Geralt is suffering right now. That he might be dead, and Eskel doesn’t even know it (although he is sure he would feel it in his heart. Surely, a connection such as theirs couldn’t be so easily severed). Somehow, it was easier when they were both in the Trials.</p><p>He almost breaks when they bring the first two back out, Mikael and Bren, shapes wrapped in blankets on which spots of blood are blooming like twisted flowers. Mikael, who was always the quickest on his feet amongst all of them. Bren, always so quiet, but the best with the bow and arrow of any year. Vesemir’s face is stone next to him as he orders them burned, but Eskel can see the whiteness around his knuckles, knows how tightly he is balling his fists. He begins to suspect that their mentor was none too fond of the additional trials.</p><p>Two more are carried out the next day, one of them still alive and screaming. Eskel’s heart turns to ice when he looks at Nikolaj’s face, eyes empty and unseeing. The sparkling wit and quick tongue, they are gone. Niko is dead long before his body breathes his last, joining that of Jan on the pyre, its embers still warm from the previous night.</p><p><em>I can’t take this anymore</em>, he thinks. He cannot sit here and wait for it to be Geralt who they carry out, with lifeless eyes and a broken body. For a short, wild moment he entertains killing the last ones of the tutors who still remain, the mage assistants who are responsible for the repeated Trial and every single soul who has ever had a hand in dragging those young men, his <em>friends</em>, off to their deaths. The urge leaves as quickly as it comes – despite his mutagen-enhanced body that he is still getting used to, despite the continuously growing strength of his magic, he would never get far. The damage has been wrought already. And besides, perhaps Geralt is still alive. Perhaps.</p><p>They finally bring him back out on the evening of the third day, when nobody is in the yard to notice. The Witchers, tutors, and trainees are all sitting in the mess hall, wolfing down their supper. Eskel just stares at the plate in front of him, unable to swallow a single bite as his stomach is twisting itself into knots. He is so embroiled in his bitter thoughts that he jerks in surprise when a hand lands on his shoulder.</p><p>“Come.” There is a sliver of sympathy in Vesemir’s eyes. Eskel instantly drops the uneaten piece of bread in his hand before he hurries after his mentor, heart hammering loudly in his chest.</p><p>“Is-“ He doesn’t even want to say the name out loud. Sudden terror is rushing loudly in his ears.</p><p>“He’s been asking for you. The mages say he should be left alone, but…” Vesemir shrugs, leads Eskel through the winding corridors until they reach the small chamber that is Geralt’s. It’s a mirror image of his own, was given to them after they had survived their Trials. Eskel used to wonder how the Keep could possibly fit all its inhabitants, even now, when each year there’d be so many boys training. He doesn’t wonder anymore, not since he and Geralt were the only ones to survive the Trials in their year. Eskel can smell it even before Vesemir opens the door – pain, herbs, blood and, underneath it all, the scent of earth and leather and just a small whiff of horse. The latter always clings to Geralt no matter where he goes, no surprise given how often he likes to sneak into the stables to spend time with the horses. Eskel could find him with his eyes closed in a room of a hundred men.</p><p>Vesemir doesn’t need to tell him to enter. Eskel runs past him, paying no heed to the mage assistant at Geralt’s bedside who is staring daggers in his direction, every objection he might have had silenced by a single look at the expression on Vesemir’s face.</p><p>“Geralt.” Eskel stops closely before the bed, heart clenching painfully in his chest. His friend’s eyes are bound and his ears stoppered, but Eskel remembers just how painful every sound, every sight must still feel. That isn’t what takes his breath away, however, nor is it the sight of his bones looking wrong, of the angry burns on his skin that shift in time with the flecks of colour as the mutagens ravage through his body. No, it’s his hair – bone-white and brittle instead of the auburn waves that Eskel so adores. Gone are Geralt’s freckles, too, his skin so pale that he looks more like a wraith than a person.</p><p>He wants to scream and shout, wants to tear this room apart, wants to stick the pair of scissors on Geralt’s nightstand into the mage assistant’s heart. Instead, he just steps closer.</p><p>“Geralt,” he whispers again, reaching out to touch his friend’s hand, fearing that even so small a touch would be agony to him.</p><p>“Eskel.” Geralt’s voice is different, too, a rasp of grinding stone where it used to be a voice that could rouse the halls with its singing. There is a bandage around his throat and Eskel knows without being told that the Geralt he knew, <em>his </em>Geralt, who would hum songs to him, who would point out the beauty of every bird in the trees, who would press kisses into his neck at night and tell him of the adventures they would find on the Path together, is dead. Their bodies might have survived the first Trials, but none of their souls emerged intact. He does not want to imagine what a second round has done to him. For a single second, Eskel just wants to run away, doesn’t want to see what is left, if there is anything left at all. But then he looks at Geralt’s face, at the pain edged into every line, the smell of fear and agony and despair emanating from him, and he knows he cannot leave.</p><p>Geralt’s fingers are twitching in his direction and Eskel finally touches his skin. It is hot and feels paper-thin, like it might rip again at any moment.</p><p>“I’m here,” he says, as quietly as he can, knowing that it must sound like a scream in Geralt’s ears anyway. He draws into Geralt’s palm, their sign for <em>Safe</em>. Countless hours spent together means they have developed their own language, signs they can communicate with in stuffy classrooms as well as from one end of the practice courtyard to the other.</p><p>“You should not-“ The mage assistant who’s been mixing some poultice or another on the other side of the bed reaches over as if to slap Eskel’s hand away. He freezes in his tracks when a hand lands on his shoulder, Vesemir’s face looming behind him, his expression thunderous.</p><p>“You’ve caused enough damage for the day,” Vesemir says, his voice quiet and measured. Only a fool does not know to fear this tone of his. “Out.”</p><p>The mage assistant swallows and nods, although his face is clouding in anger. Vesemir just stands there and looks at him. Perhaps, if the mages originally in charge of the Trials hadn’t all been killed in the sacking and were here now, the assistant would have dared to resist. But here and now, it doesn’t take long for the man’s resolve to crumple – if he had walked out any faster, his exit from the room could only have been called a flight. </p><p>Vesemir places his hand on Eskel’s shoulder again and squeezes. He gives him a few whispered instructions about which potions he can give to Geralt, what to do about some of his wounds. Eskel doesn’t know whether he wants to scream at Vesemir – their mentor, their father, who claims to love them and who still let this happen to Geralt and the others – or thank him for this bit of mercy that almost feels like mockery.</p><p>“I’ll make sure no one disturbs you until the morning,” he says quietly before he, too, exits the room and leaves them both alone.</p><p>“Geralt,” Eskel says again. “Ger. Can your hear me?”</p><p>Geralt’s fingers move against his hand. <em>Yes</em>. Eskel lets out a breath that he didn’t even know he was holding.</p><p>“You look terrible,” he whispers. He doesn’t have to ask whether it hurts; of course it does. From the looks of it, this second bout of Trials that the remaining mage assistants have come up with were even worse than the first round. Geralt must be in absolute agony, even though he is barely moving, only twitching from time to time as a spasm runs through him when his body keeps changing, ravaged by the additional mutagens introduced into his system.</p><p>There is a broken sound as Geralt’s chest shakes and it takes Eskel a moment to realise that it’s a laugh.</p><p>“Shhh.” He reaches out, hesitates. “Can I touch your face?” he asks, remembering well how even the simplest touch was too much for them at times, right after the Trials.</p><p><em>Yes</em>. Another sign, pressed into his hand. <em>Please</em>. It puts the tiniest of smiles on Eskel’s lips.</p><p>He reaches out and puts his hand on Geralt’s cheek, rubs his thumb through the stubble that has only just begun to sprout over the past year or so. White now, too, just like all the other hair on his body. A shudder runs through Geralt’s body at the touch, his skin burning under Eskel’s fingers, even as he leans into them.</p><p><em>Cold</em>, he signs into Eskel’s other hand. <em>Good</em>. They stay like this, Geralt’s cheek pressed into this palm, until another spasm racks Geralt’s body. Eskel remembers how the changes came over him in waves after the first Trial, periods of ache interspersed with sharp bouts of pain as his body seemed to break and reform itself in fits and starts.</p><p>Geralt curls up and starts screaming as his skin begins to ripple and crack, a hoarse sound that breaks something inside Eskel in two. He wants nothing more than to hold him, to soothe away all the pain with a touch and whispered words, but he knows it would only hurt more and so he can only sit there and watch, speaking softly to him, trying to give Geralt at least his voice to anchor himself to in the ocean of misery he must be drowning in right now. Geralt’s heart is alternating between beating slower than Eskel’s and then speeding up to sound out as rapidly as a bird’s. Eskel tries to keep count, but he fails.</p><p>His chest is heaving and there is blood on his lips when his body finally quiets down again. Eskel takes a cloth and carefully wipes it away, drawing nothing but a sigh from Geralt. After a moment of hesitation, he picks up the mug on the bedside table.</p><p>“You should try and drink this,” he says, as quietly as possible. “It’ll help with the pain. Make you tired so you can sleep a little.”</p><p>Geralt reaches out blindly, until he can grasp Eskel’s hand again. His grip feels slightly wrong somehow, fingers twitching and twisting in ways they shouldn’t be able to. Eskel puts one hand on top of his, to help steady his touch.</p><p><em>Yes</em>, Geralt signs. Somehow Eskel manages to manoeuvre him into a more upright position, manages to get him to swallow the potion and keep it down. Geralt is shaking again when he is lying back down, but his hands are searching for Eskel’s, unwilling to let go.</p><p><em>Stay</em>. His signs are of almost fevered urgency. <em>Please. Stay.</em> <em>Don’t want. Wake alone</em>.</p><p>“Always,” Eskel whispers. <em>Never alone</em>, he signs back. Geralt’s lips form themselves into the semblance of a smile.</p><p><em>Close. Come close.</em> Geralt’s signing becomes slower, but he presses his fingers into Eskel’s skin nonetheless, punctuating his request with a low noise from his destroyed throat. Eskel only ponders his words for a moment before he walks around the cot and lifts up the blanket. He is careful when crawling underneath, more careful even when he presses his chest against Geralt’s back and settles his arms around him. Geralt murmurs something, shuffling into Eskel’s touch, until Eskel can feel his body shifting and moving, changing beneath his skin.</p><p><em>Okay?</em> he signs. <em>Pain?</em></p><p><em>Pain.</em> Geralt’s touch is faint; despite his new mutations, the potion Eskel was told to give him is dragging him under fast, his body craving sleep. <em>Better with you</em>.</p><p>Eskel just presses his forehead against Geralt’s neck, wary of squeezing him too tightly. Geralt’s fingers intertwine themselves with his and Eskel wants nothing more than being able to keep him safe.<em> I won’t let them hurt you agai</em>n, he thinks as he can hear Geralt’s breathing even out, his heartbeat slow down until it is even slower than his own. <em>Ever</em>.</p>
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